


"I'm Dean Winchester... And I hunt monsters."

by Houseplant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, MENTAL PATIENT AU, Mental Institutions, Teen AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houseplant/pseuds/Houseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hunts monsters, and Castiel is an angel of the lord, and their therapist disapproves of both career choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"I'm Dean Winchester... And I hunt monsters."

_Clack, clack, clack._

 

Smart shoes smacked against the cracking linoleum of the hallway floor, the owner of them dragging him by the arm. He hadn’t wanted to cooperate. His old room had been perfectly fine. And it had been… safe.

One wasn’t allowed sharp objects in the hospital. Even ‘arts and crafts’ time (which was a bullshit and childish name, Dean decided long ago) didn’t allow them anything more dangerous than safety scissors, and even then it was under close observation from at least three orderlies at all times.

Said arts and crafts time, however, had given him several months worth of red crayons, which he had stockpiled in a hole in his mattress. Until last night, that was. Last night Dean had taken his quiet art project to the open; sigils, traps, protection signs of all faiths littered the walls.

And now they needed to re-paint.

Which meant Dean wasn’t allowed that room. Not for the while it would take for the contractors to come in, assess the damage, actually paint the damned thing, and then let it dry.

The rough estimate was two weeks.

So that brought him to where he was now, being dragged down the hall to one of the few rooms without a second tenant. He hadn’t paid attention to his roomate-to-be’s name.

The guy was probably psycho.

They all were.

(Or, the orderlies, nurses, and doctors all thought they were. Dean certainly wasn’t. He was, quite possibly, the only person with a damned bit of sense to him. )

Finally, the dragging and the clacking stopped, and the woman who had brought him to the door pushed it open. It squealed, and Dean glared at it; hadn’t they ever heard of oiling the hinges? Well… on second thought, a screech like that would always alert them to someone (something) entering.

Unless it took the window.

The nurse said something indistinguishable, which might have been ‘here’, ‘have fun’, or ‘I fucking hate my job’, and a hand on his shoulder shoved Dean into the room.

The first thing he noticed, was that it was dark. The curtains were drawn, the blanket was rumpled in ways that suggested someone hadn’t slept, and in the centre of the room sat a figure. 

A figure that took no notice of Dean, curled in on itself as it was. There was a low hum of something, and Dean thought it was the radiator (the building was old, and the heating often growled when no one thought it was listening.) A few minutes of listening, and Dean was able to make out what sounded like words.

They weren’t English. Or Latin. Or any other language the teen had heard, but their muttered intent had to mean something. Narrowing his eyes at this boy — thing? creature? — Dean slowly cleared his throat.

Startling it would do no good, unarmed as he was. It was a fucking shame that he wasn’t even allowed a knife. Useful things, those were. A plastic one would even do, when faced with the unknown.

The very unknown Dean was questioning was ignoring him, continuing to mutter whatever litany had so struck its fancy, so Dean ventured a step further into the room.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” he paused, observing to see if the name had any effect.It was, after all, quite well known by those of supernatural ilk. When the thing in the center still showed no signs of recognition, he added, “And I hunt monsters.”

A long, almost-silence settled on the room, broken only by monotone mutters in that unidentified language. It spanned far longer than a few minutes, and certainly far fewer than several hours. 

When Dean thought he might finally go truly mad, a clear, confident voice came from the figure settled in the center of the room. “Castiel. And I’m an angel of the lord.”


End file.
